


come back (he'll help you stand)

by griffenly



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 11:31:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4018135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/griffenly/pseuds/griffenly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy post-season 2 finale, as seen in the eyes of the delinquents and Lincoln.</p>
            </blockquote>





	come back (he'll help you stand)

_Octavia_

She watches him by the fire, a drink in his hand and a pensive furrow between his brows.

He doesn’t look anguished, or angry, or... or _anything_ , really, except maybe a bit melancholic. And Octavia isn’t sure if that’s better, or worse.

“Hey, big brother,” she says genially as she sidles up beside him, knocking his shoulder and forcing a half smile onto her face to try and bring one to his own, and his lips twitch upwards in a valiant attempt. “What are you doing?”

He raises his cup with a sardonic lift of his eyebrow in answer, and she sighs.

“Why don’t you come join the party?” she tries, and he drops his head, finger tracing the rim of his cup absentmindedly. There is music blaring all around (because there were _alive_ , and _fuck_ if that wasn’t reason to celebrate), but she and Bellamy are enveloped in their own little bubble, of solitude and silence, as though the other delinquents knew not to break the siblings’ moment.

“O,” he starts, and Octavia shakes her head.

“ _No_. None of this self-pity bullshit. We survived. _You_ survived. It’s time to celebrate.” Bellamy looks up at her, his eyes dark and flashing with the last remnants of the flames in front of them, and there are a myriad of emotions swirling in his ash-colored irises. Devastation, loss, relief, hope - but, right there, right at the front - the same look she is certain haunted her eyes when Lincoln was gone. The look of a man separated from his soulmate, of one half of a whole.

She is going to fucking _kill_ Clarke.

(Or, she would, if she didn’t think it would break Bellamy into a million little pieces.)

“Give me tonight,” he says, and Octavia almost spits out her drink, because where she was expecting anger and retaliation and _Bellamy_ , all she gets is this dejected shell of a man. And she wants to yell at him. She wants to shake his shoulders and force his gaze to hers, to show him that he deserves _more_ , better than _this_ (better than a girl who torched an entire village, better than a girl whose hand trembled on a lever she should have never pulled, better than a girl who saw the fractured pieces of the boy she broke and left anyway).

But he gives her an imploring look, and she nods. “Tonight, then,” she says, and they both turn to the fire, allowing the dying embers to swallow them in the blackness.

The next morning, just as promised, his eyes are steely and unemotional, and he is discussing fervently with Kane and Abby, and it is as if nothing has changed.

Octavia feels a bit sick.

* * *

 

_Miller_

He is a drowning man, and it is as clear as day.

Or maybe it’s simply because Miller knows him so well, has been his second since the first day on this god-forsaken planet, but he can see the way the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, the way he turns his head so fast he’s going to give himself fucking whiplash every time the gates heave open. But he keeps busy, and it is almost seamless, his transition to power, that Miller is a little thrown off. Abby and Kane welcome him with open arms, the events of Mount Weather having proven his worth, clearly, and he replaces Clarke on their makeshift council quickly. He takes to the role, and Miller is impressed by the way he throws his opinion into the circle easily, never seeming concerned with the way his position will be taken.

(Sometimes, though, he sees him hesitate - as though he is having an internal debate with himself. What would _she_ do, if she were here?)

(Of course, she isn’t here, but that’s something Miller isn’t quite ready to deal with.)

He is good with the kids, too, Miller sees; watches him dote on them, ever the dad of the camp. He makes sure they’re eating, sleeping. Makes sure they’re getting meds when they’re sick, eases them through the tremors of their nightmares.

But one night, while on guard duty, Miller realizes it’s the third night in a row that Bellamy’s been on duty, and he turns to his friend with a frown on his face.

“When was the last time you slept?” he asks, and he sees Bellamy tense. The moonlight glints off his face, and Miller can see the dark marks smudging the skin beneath his eyes, the exhausted slump of his shoulders.

A drowning man whose life vest was tossed into the abyss of the forest.

“I don’t know,” Bellamy answers finally. “It’s fine though,” he hurries to add. “I like helping with guard duty. And, plus, someone has to keep you lot in shape.” It’s a feeble joke, and Bellamy knows it.

“You need to rest,” Miller tries again, his voice imploring. “Seriously, you’re useless to me if you fall asleep on post.” He knocks his shoulder into Bellamy’s, and it brings out a subtle smile, at least.

“I won’t take duty tomorrow night,” Bellamy says on a sigh, and Miller nods.

(He catches him, the next night, though. He sees him leaning with his back against the outer wall, his hands shaking and his voice low as he murmurs to the stars, and Miller slinks away slowly.)

(He doesn’t bring it up again.)

* * *

 

_Jasper_

He knows it’s a bad idea even as the words tumble out of his mouth, unbidden, the pain and bitterness and grief overpowering every rational thought. Because he’s _hurting_ , and he’s lost so much, so many - he held the girl he loved in his arms as her last breaths were sucked out of her, and it had been utter, _eternal_ torment. Bellamy didn’t know what that was like. Bellamy didn’t _get_ it.

And so the words came out.

“She’s a fucking _murderer_ ,” he seethes, his breath coming out in hot, fast pants, fists clenched by his sides as the fire burns burns _burns_ in his vision. (He sees Maya, her skin blistered and and her final words scalding him straight through his bones - _no one is innocent_ ). “She _murdered_ those people at TonDC, she _murdered_ those people in the Mountain -”

Bellamy’s hands are around his throat in a matter of seconds.

He can’t _breathe_ , and it feels like flying (he wonders if he’ll see Maya, when it ends, if all this pain will end).

His hands are tearing at Bellamy’s furiously, moving of their own accord, and someone is screaming, but all Jasper can think about is that _he can't breathe_.

Someone rips Bellamy away, but he is back in moments, face looming dangerously close to Jasper’s. “She did not _murder_ anyone,” he says, his voice dripping in disgust with that word. “She saved _my_ life, she saved _your_ life. She saved every _fucking_ life in this entire _fucking_ camp. So don’t you _dare_ call her a murderer.” Bellamy pauses, eyes flitting between Jasper’s, and that’s when he sees it - when Jasper sees the look that has been gnawing at his own gut for the past few weeks, the feeling of being stranded in the center of an ocean without a lifeline. The feeling of losing everything, of trying to cling to the last remnants of earth with nothing but his fingertips.

He wonders if there is more to the story of Bellamy and Clarke than meets the eye.

“And,” Bellamy adds in a low voice, “I pulled that damn lever same as her. My hand on top of hers. So if you’re placing blame, you better fucking put it on me, too. None of that double standard shit.” He shoves Jasper backwards, and Jasper stumbles, the words on repeat in his mind - _my hand on top of hers, same as her_ \- as Bellamy stalks away, a very angry-looking Raven prodding him and giving him disdainful glares.

Jasper stays there, on the ground for several minutes as he dry heaves, trying to rid his body of the toxicity infecting his bloodstream. Of _almosts_ and the feel of a dead girl in his arms.

He can’t get Bellamy’s face out of his mind.

* * *

 

_Raven_

He paces.

And it’s fucking _distracting_.

“Bellamy Blake,” she says between gritted teeth, “if you don’t stop this _fucking_ instant, I will kill you.”

“She isn’t kidding!” Wick calls from his own work space, and she rolls her eyes, although there is a smile teasing the corners of her lips.

“They’ve been in there for _three_ _hours_ ,” Bellamy groans, running a hand over his face for the thousandth time. “I’m the one who helped organize this peace agreement with the Ice Nation, and they won’t even let me in the meeting! And if this falls through -”

“Then it’ll just be another Grounder clan to deal with,” Raven finishes drolly, because she’s heard this speech dozens of times in the span of those aforementioned three hours, and she _knows_ , okay? “But it’s going to work out. Your treaty was brilliant, as I’ve already told you, and the Ice Nation hates Lexa just as much as we do, right now.”

He stops his pacing (thank _fuck_ ), and hesitates before collapsing into the seat across from her at the work space.

“I just wish I knew what she would do,” he mutters, so quietly Raven isn’t even sure she’s supposed to hear it. Raven sighs, too, because - because _yeah_ , she knows this too.

“Clarke trusts you,” she says truthfully, her voice gentle but firm, and she covers his hand with her own. “She always has. She always believed in you. And I know she would pick your plan first.” Raven thinks of words from a thousand lifetimes ago - _I would pick you first_ \- but she knows who Clarke would really pick first. Who she would always pick first.

(He is sitting across from her, a forlorn yet hopeful look marring his features.)

Bellamy squeezes her hand before releasing it. “Yeah,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t sound fully convinced. And Raven knows he’s been trying - trying so _damn_ hard - and she also knows that what she said is true. Clarke would be so proud, if she were here.

(Raven wishes she were here.)

When Kane finally comes in, another forty-five minutes later, to call Bellamy into the council chambers, Wick whistles lowly and raises an eyebrow at Raven. “He’s so screwed,” he says plainly.

Raven releases a breath that is supposed to be a laugh. “Yeah,” she says, turning back towards the project in her hands, “he is.”

(The treaty passes.)

* * *

 

_Monty_

He loves having something to do. Bellamy keeps him busy, always passing him off to whoever needs him - farming, at one point; engineering, at another; even _medical_ , where Abby gives him a soft smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and it’s so _Clarke_ that it hurts.

And Bellamy always checks up on him, subtly, and while Monty feels like a broken toy, he also appreciates the effort. (Jasper still won’t speak to him. He pretends it doesn’t bother him.)

(But, _god_ , he misses his best friend.)

And it doesn’t hurt that Bellamy picks up on Monty’s not-so-subtle crush on Miller, and forces them together at every turn. It starts with him inviting Monty to eat with them only to promptly have something _very pressing_ to do, leaving the pair alone. At first, he’d been absolutely mortified, but... but Nate is nice, and cute, and he does this bashful smile thing that makes Monty remember what it’s like to be _happy_.

It’s at one of those now-daily lunches that Miller says, “I don’t think Bellamy’s sleeping.”

Monty looks up curiously, tilting his head to the side. “A lot of us don’t sleep,” he says slowly, because, well, it’s _true_.

Miller shakes his head, that furrow indenting his brow which meant deep thought, and he murmurs, “I saw him by the wall like two weeks ago. He was just... _standing_ there, muttering to himself.” Miller stabs a piece of his meat. “I’m worried.”

Monty contemplates it for a moment, and then makes a decision. “Let me talk to him. If he’s out there again... let me talk to him.”

Miller nods and gives Monty the most radiant smile he’s ever seen, and when Miller slides his hand into his own, Monty bites his lip to keep the grin from overtaking his own face.

The moment is enough to distract him for the rest of the day, until that night, when he is wandering the grounds (because he wasn’t lying when he said a lot of them didn’t sleep - the nightmares, some nights, were worse than others) and he sees Bellamy, and the earlier conversation comes flying back to him.

“Bellamy?” he asks tentatively as he approaches, and the older boy’s head flies up quickly, his eyes wide and worried, Monty sees him clench his fists to keep his quaking hands to himself.

(Miller was right to be worried.)

“Hey,” Bellamy breathes, shaking his head to alleviate the mild panic that had obviously taken over his features, “you okay?”

“ _I’m_ fine,” Monty responds with a lifted eyebrow. “Are _you_?”

Bellamy laughs, a dry, humorless thing, and runs a hand over his face. “Yeah,” he murmurs after a moment. “I...” He pauses, giving Monty a look that can only be described as embarrassed. “I talk to her,” he whispers.

“Who?” Monty asks, settling next to him on the ground where Bellamy had sat, even though he already knows.

“Clarke.” The name falls from his lips like a prayer, like a promise, and Monty can her a thousand things unvoiced trembling in that single syllable. (He remembers Bellamy walking up to Clarke just after Monty had left her, and... and he _knows_.) “It helps,” he continues, and the words are flowing out of him like water through a dam, like he has wanted to spill this secret for so long but didn’t quite know how. “I... I tell her about the day, about what she’s missing. About how I’m waiting for her to make good on her promise.”

Monty nods and doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t need to.

Bellamy plunges forward: “I _miss_ her,” he whispers, and his voice breaks a little bit.

“Me too,” Monty murmurs.

They sit together and watch the stars, and they wonder if Clarke is looking at them the same way, with the same thoughts coursing through her brain.

(It helps.)

* * *

 

_Lincoln_

Octavia is not pleased, and he knows it. But Bellamy had made good on his promise of _one night only_ , and he is doing well. Leading, _thriving_ , prospering. It’s amazing, really.

But Lincoln sees it, too. The way he seems a bit off-kilter at times, because she isn’t beside him. The way he still turns to ask her opinion, only to find the space she should be occupying empty.

It’s been two months, and the doors swing open heavily.

Bellamy doesn’t turn his head the way he used to, Lincoln notices, but that doesn’t stop Lincoln from doing so, and - and there _she_ is.

Blonde hair and blue eyes and a timid but radiant smile on her face.

It makes Lincoln’s lips twitch upwards, just the littlest bit. Miller murmurs something to Bellamy, whose head whips around so fast Lincoln is a little concerned about his neck, and he drops the maps in his hands when he sees her. She hasn’t noticed him yet, but her eyes are scanning the crowd - she is hugging Raven, and then Monty, and then her mother, and Kane, and the list goes on and on and on - and he knows who she is looking for.

When their gazes meet, Lincoln watches the relief flood her features; he watches the soft smile turn into something bigger, warmer, fuller. Bellamy whispers her name like it’s the most beautiful damn thing he’s ever heard, and then they’re both running, all gangly legs and clumsy movements, and they collide somewhere in the middle, his arms around her waist and hers around his neck. He buries his face in her hair, breathing her in, and Lincoln can see that Clarke is shaking.

“You came back,” Bellamy whispers brokenly, and Clarke’s arms tighten.

“Of course I did, you idiot,” she mutters into the skin of his neck, and Lincoln is certain he is smiling far more widely than he ever has now as Bellamy laughs - _really_ laughs, for the first time in months.

“I missed you,” she murmurs.

“ _Fuck_ , princess,” Bellamy says. “Me too. You have no idea how much.” He pulls back, cradling her face between his palms as his eyes roam over her, memorizing every inch, taking in every new scar and mark and blemish. He presses a kiss to her forehead, and Clarke clenches her eyes closed, a tear falling down her cheek, and she is gripping his wrists so tightly it may leave bruises.

“C’mon,” he whispers, so low Lincoln can barely hear it, “there’s so much to tell you.”

And he takes her by the hand, tugging her into the Ark, where the council room still lies, Abby and Kane at their heels.

Lincoln stares off to where they’ve disappeared, and Octavia sidles up to him, wrapping an arm around his back and sighing heavily. Lincoln chuckles, kissing the hair. “Don’t be bitter,” he murmurs.

“I’m _not_ ,” she claims on a huff. “I just... I worry about him. She left him.”

“Yes,” Lincoln agrees, “and then she came back.” He pulls away a bit to look her in her eyes. “I did something similar, if you recall.”

Octavia rolls her eyes and presses her forehead to his chest, and he wraps his arms around her, engulfing her tiny frame in his own.

“I know,” she mutters.

“In this world, in this life, we are destined to lose each other,” he whispers. “Maybe the important part is that we find each other again.”

Later, the sun sets in a violent shade of oranges and yellows and reds, and Lincoln sees Bellamy and Clarke by the fire, her head on his shoulder as he whispers lowly to her, and Lincoln thinks some things just may be inevitable.


End file.
